Voices
by Bucken-Berry
Summary: "He was a psychiatrist; this wasn't possible. Psychiatrists didn't experience hallucinations or delusions. They didn't hear voices that weren't there." George falls victim to the very thing he treats on a daily basis. No pairings. On hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Don't own

A/N: This one is very similar to my oneshot, Vulnerable, but with a few twists and turns, and I think it's different enough to be considered a different story. I will update as inspiration strikes, and before you ask, this one will have no pairings. I can write gen stories, see? (nods) That said, there WILL be many close friendships.

This story will probably act as a trigger to some. I'm going to warn what the triggers are, but they may also be spoilers. If you want to know, read them, if you don't, skip them and be surprised.

Possible triggers include; mental illness (psychotic depression and anxiety disorders) and alcohol abuse in this chapter, and, in future chapters, attempted suicide and cutting. There may be more that I'm not thinking of as the story continues; if that is the case, I'll add it to the A/N at the top of the chapter it's introduced in. If any of the above are triggers for you, please proceed with caution.

Well, I think that just about takes care of everything. Please review!

This can't be happening.

That was all he could think as he lowered himself to the chair, shaking violently enough to make the chair move. He was almost hyperventilating. He was a psychiatrist; this wasn't possible. Psychiatrists didn't experience hallucinations or delusions. They didn't hear voices that weren't there. They didn't have sudden paranoia that someone could hear their thoughts, or that someone was trying to send them messages over the television. They didn't experience homicidal thoughts. He couldn't be experiencing psychotic depression. His patients might- he didn't.

He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. Obviously he had just become so afraid of become like _them, _he had started displaying symptoms. It was psychosomatic, like women with false pregnancies or people who were so afraid they had a terrible illness that they started displaying symptoms. It was like when he was still in med school, and he and his classmates went to the school doctor almost every week because they were convinced they whatever cancer or genetic disorder or rare parasitic infection they'd learned about in the latest lecture.

George knew he was almost certainly depressed. Very few people in his position weren't. No family, few friends, and no partner to deflect the loneliness like an NYPD detective would have. He had an emotionally strenuous job, and added to the fact that as an FBI agent, he wasn't allowed to talk about most of his cases, which meant he couldn't vent his feelings. He had no problem admitting that he would benefit from antidepressants.

But psychosis? No. Never. He almost whimpered as he thought about how such a diagnosis would affect his career. He'd have to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital, and if he wasn't admitted voluntarily, he wouldn't be able to own a gun again- which meant he wouldn't be able to be an FBI agent anymore. At best, he'd be able to go into private practice, but even then, if it got out, he would lose his reputation, killing his career.

It had started with the depression. Questioning why he was still doing this, why he was bothering to understand criminals. He didn't like understanding them. Their minds were the filthiest place on the planet, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could trudge through them.

He'd sank deeper and deeper into the depression as the days wore by. Soon, he knew the thoughts had persisted for long enough that he knew he'd meet the clinical criteria for depression.

And then, it happened.

_He had been sitting at home when he'd heard a voice telling him, "They're trying to kill you!"_

_Startled, he'd turned around and saw that... his apartment was deserted. He'd called out, asking for the person to show himself, but there was no person. No one at all._

_He'd shaken off the fear and started to make himself some dinner- but he couldn't use his oven. There was a ticking noise coming from it, something that sounded suspiciously like a bomb. But looking inside, he couldn't see any wires or other components._

_Deciding that he needed some fresh air, he'd left his apartment and walked to the neighborhood bar._

_But it didn't end there. Glancing at the people sitting there, he suddenly found himself thinking that they all wanted to hurt him. And that same voice from earlier said, "Hurt them before they hurt you."_

_Taking a deep breath, he caught the bartender's attention and ordered a scotch. He needed to calm down._

_He glanced up at the television and saw an ad for Zoloft. "How could they possibly know that I prescribed that today?" He'd wondered, panicked._

_He almost moaned when he realized what he was thinking. He was not developing paranoid delusions. He was just tense. That was all._

_The bartender slid a glass in front of him and said, "Hey, here's yer scotch."_

_George nodded and took a large gulp. But then the voice came back and warned, "He drugged it."_

_He would have ignored it, but he had been worrying the same thing before the voice had spoken up. The voice wasn't real- but on the other hand-_

_The bartender was still standing there, and George felt fury coursing through his veins. He wanted to punch him. Hard._

_"That'll show everyone to stop trying to hurt you," The voice had said approvingly. George shook his head silently and turned his head back to the TV. But it was still sending him messages._

_"Hey man, you look upset," The bartender had said. "Is the TV bugging you? I can turn the volume down or something."_

_"They all hear your thoughts-" George tried to ignore the voice, but he couldn't. It wasn't real, but it was._

_Reaching inside his pants pocket, he'd quickly pulled out his credit card and paid for the half-finished scotch. Then he'd practically bolted back to his apartment._

_Once inside, he locked the door and sank to his knees, closing his eyes and bursting into silent tears. "I did not just have a psychotic break. I am not psychotic and I never will be," He whispered frantically to himself._

_"That's what they'll try to tell you, though. And if they convince you, they'll kill you," The voice chimed in._

_"No one wants to kill me. I'm just feeling a little anxious because of the case today," He'd said silently._

_"You saw exactly what I did! There was a bomb in the oven, but it disappeared because you saw it too soon. The TV was sending you messages. The bartender read your thoughts!"_

_"N-no," He whispered. "This isn't real. I'm just-"_

_"You start to believe that," The voice cut in, "And they'll kill you."_

Things had just gotten worse from there. It plagued him everywhere- at work, at home. It got to the point where the voice tried to tell him that _Olivia _was trying to hurt him. He began to develop agoraphobia and anxiety, and he barely managed to conceal his distress- but he didn't know how much longer he could do this.

George was still trembling violently. Today, the voice had been pleading with him to kill the suspect in interrogation. And then it had urged him to commit suicide, before they got him. "Kill yourself to spite them!"

He had his FBI-issue glock sitting in front of him on the kitchen table. If he killed himself, no one would need to know that he was psychotic. He could just be another overwhelmed FBI agent who had become convinced that the world was never going to change and needed a way out.

Finally, unsure if he would be able to fight the desire again, he set the gun down. "How is this happening?" George cried, tears streaming down his face.

"It's their fault! They're trying to manipulate you so they can kill you!"

"Shut up," George whispered, pleadingly.

"I'm warning you-"

"SHUT UP!" George roared, picking his gun up and hurling it at the wall. He wished this voice was a real person so he could fucking _stab _him.

He stood and flung his refrigerator open, grabbing a large bottle of wine and guzzling enough to knock him out. He waited for what felt like years, trying to force the voice to stop talking.

"Idiot! They could have poisoned that!"

"Shut up! No one's after me!"

He didn't know how long it was before the wave of nausea overtook him, but it was the best thing he'd ever felt. He threw up into the sink, and by the time he was done, he could no longer hear the voice. He enjoyed the deafening silence for several minutes before he passed out, slumping to the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Congratulations to KarlisonSVU, who not only flamed one dozen of my stories in the span of one hour, but who also, in their determination to bash the G/E ship, managed to somehow miss the fact that I said in both the summary AND the author's note that this story has no pairings. Hooray for flamers and trolls! *Slow clap*

Thanks to everyone else, though! Hopefully you enjoy this story. :)

"Ow! Fuck!" George cried as he woke up. He raised a hand and rubbed at his temples, groaning softly and closing his eyes as the too-bright light made them water. His head felt like it had been struck repeatedly with a sledgehammer; it pounded mercilessly, making a wave of overwhelming nausea crash over his belly.

He was on his kitchen floor, he noted with a frown. He felt around him and found a bottle of alcohol; it was a hangover, then. He hadn't had alcohol in a long time, though- why?-

The nausea increased in intensity, and he barely managed to stand and lean over the kitchen sink before he vomited. He clutched at his stomach, panting for breath, and sank back down to the floor.

He kneaded his pounding head, trying to remember what had happened.

And then the memories crashed over him. _The voice. _It had been relentless, and then he'd finally been unable to cope and he'd self-medicated with alcohol in an attempt to escape...

The voice was gone now, though. He didn't know how long that would be the case, but hopefully it would be enough time for George to pull himself together. He needed to figure out what he was going to do. He needed to be hospitalized, because the risk of hurting himself was too great- last night had proved that- and because he could harm others, too. Like how he wanted to strangle almost everyone he saw...

But he couldn't do that. Life as he knew it would be over. He'd have to deal with the stigma for the rest of his life, his career would be effectively over. But if he killed someone, it would be even worse, and if he killed himself, none of it would matter anyway.

No matter how many times he ran the facts over in his head, he just couldn't find a solution. It was a hopeless situation; every option was worse than the last. He was stuck, and he couldn't think of a way out.

Swallowing hard, continuing to clench his face against the throbbing pain, he stood and walked to his bathroom. He took two Advil pills and climbed into the shower, sighing softly as the cold water hit his body. He shivered heavily, but the water had the desired effect; his head began to clear, and the ache ebbed away steadily. The shower was much too loud, causing him to wince and rub his temples at first, but he managed to block it out, and besides, anything that wasn't the voice was a welcome relief.

He stepped out and got ready for work, and managed to arrive on time. He entered the building and walked to his office, thankful that today, he didn't need to testify in court or interview any suspects; he would be left alone for most of the day, a rare but welcome occurrence. If he had to deal with people today, he wasn't sure he could stop himself from trying to strangle them.

He sat down at his desk and began to fill out his paper work, feeling a nagging fear about when- not if- the voice returned. He didn't think he would be able to fight it off any longer, and that terrified him. If the voice convinced him that everyone around him was trying to kill him...

He shook the thought out of his head. He'd worry about it later; he couldn't afford to be distracted at the moment.

* * *

It was noon by the time George looked at the clock again. Twelve whole hours without the voice- that was the longest he'd been left in peace since this mess had started. George felt a bit of hope rise within him; maybe, against all odds, the voice had disappeared after all. Maybe it had been created by fear of going insane, like he'd thought, and now that he was calm, it was gone for good.

But his hopes were crushed immediately. A knock came from his door, and the instant Olivia and Elliot entered the room, the voice returned, warning him about a threat that didn't exist. "They're trying to hurt you. Stop them!"

George tensed, feeling fear- both towards the voice and Elliot and Olivia- rise in his chest. He couldn't talk the voice down _and _carry on a conversation with Olivia and Elliot- he had to escape-

But Elliot and Olivia would never hurt him. They were good cops, good people. The voice was wrong, this wasn't real-

"Doc?" Olivia asked softly, looking him over carefully. "Are you okay?"

George jumped at her voice, but managed to pass it off as just a sudden movement. "Y-yes, sorry detective, I'm just a little on edge today," George stammered. He moved quickly, turning around to look like he was searching for his casefile when, in actuality, he was trying to compose himself and figure out what to do.

"Get your shit together, Huang! You can't let them know!" He thought angrily.

"Yeah, because then they'll kill you if they find out," The voice chimed in.

"Shut up, damnit!" George roared silently. He clenched his hands into fists, wishing, for the second time in twenty-four hours, that the voice was a real person so he could hurt him. He wanted to hit him and stomp him and stab him, he wanted to hear him screaming in pain, and then he wanted to choke the life out of him and see the spark of life leaving his eyes-

He wanted to _kill. _But that wasn't possible, that wasn't him, that wasn't who he was- he was the most peaceful person he knew of, he wouldn't hurt a fly-

"It isn't you, it's them! They're controlling your thoughts, stop them before it's too late!" The voice yelled.

"Shut up, you fucking bastard!" George screamed back. He dug his fingernails into his palms even harder, drawing blood. He barely managed to choke back a sob. _Oh god, this is actually happening! I'm really losing it!_

He caught sight of his medical bag, and an idea occurred to him. He might be able to medicate himself. But that was illegal too, and he had no way of knowing what medicine was suited for him- an unbiased perspective was required. And he was most certainly biased.

But it was so tempting. If he could just inject himself with some haldol, it might fix this...

Sighing and shaking his head, he grabbed the casefile and turned to face the detectives.

But then, something went very, very wrong.

He _froze._ He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He just stood there, trying to force his body to do _something._

Olivia and Elliot were staring at him. They were going to hurt him, the voice was right, he had to stop them before they tried to kill him- he couldn't let himself be hurt, he had to defend himself!

But no, this was Olivia and Elliot, they were his trusted co-workers, he could trust them with his life. They would die before hurting him, the voice was just trying to scare him-

He had to get out of here. He was trembling, the walls were closing in on him, he was ready to tackle anything that even moved too quickly. He had to go before they figured out what was wrong with him.

But his body was still frozen in place.

He tried to force it to move, thought of what he had to do, thought of fleeing before the voice made him do something he would regret forever, and then, finally, after what felt like ages, he managed, "Uh, detectives, I- I'm not feeling very well, I have to-"

Ignoring the expressions of concern, then alarm, on the detective's faces, he stood and practically bolted out of the room and into the bathrooms. He locked himself in a stall and leaned heavily against a wall, almost hyperventillating. His heart was pounding so hard that it hurt, and it felt like it was blocking his throat.

He had to leave. He had to go someplace where no one would find him, until he sorted this mess out. He had to isolate himself so he wouldn't hurt anyone.

Hoping that the detectives were still waiting for him in his office and wouldn't see him, he rushed out of the building and to his car, not even bothering to grab his medical bag. Then he drove back to his apartment, trying to understand how this had happened and what he would do about it.


End file.
